The Defeated Aristocrat (16 page)

Ralf Frank was presiding at a table on a mezzanine, a vantage point that gave him a comprehensive view of the bar. Two clergymen were with him, one in the white collar and wings of a Lutheran pastor, the other the dog collar and black robe of a Catholic priest. A bottle of schnapps, a jug of beer, half a dozen glasses, and a ledger were on the table between them.

Ralf saw Wolf and waved. ‘Join us.’ He shouted down to barman. ‘More glasses, and another jug of beer, please.’

Wolf climbed the steps, shrugged off his leather coat and cap and took the chair next to Ralf, opposite the priests.

‘Pastor Jung, Father Mathias, Colonel von Mau.’

‘Wolf Mau, not colonel. My army days are over.’ Wolf shook their hands. ‘You’re French, Father?’

‘Guilty. I trust you won’t hold it against me.’

‘Or you my nationality against me,’ Wolf countered.

‘I wouldn’t be in Konigsberg if I did. I’m parish priest at the Church of the Holy Family.’

A dark-haired waitress with a voluptuous figure and a sensual smile brought up a tray of glasses and a jug of beer. Ralf filled four schnapps glasses from a bottle on the table and pushed one in front of Wolf.

‘To peace.’ Ralf downed his shot in one swallow.

‘Peace.’ Wolf and the clergymen followed suit.

‘Is our business finished?’ Ralf asked the clergymen.

‘Yes, thank you for your assistance, Herr Frank.’ Pastor Jung and Father Matthias rose from the table. ‘And thank you and your father for your contributions. They are sorely needed.’

Ralf was amused by the expression on Wolf’s face. ‘It’s all right, Wolf. I haven’t succumbed to a case of religious fervour of either persuasion.’

‘Herr Frank and his father are helping us house and feed the city’s destitute,’ Father Mathias explained.

‘With the allies demanding more and more livestock and farm produce as war reparation, farms and estates are going bankrupt and food is in short supply. Even when it’s available, prices are beyond people’s means. Families are flooding into Konigsberg. Not just returning soldiers but women, children and the elderly. All starving, many ill. The children and the weak are dying,’ Pastor Jung added.

‘You can count on my father and me to do what we can.’ Ralf shook the Pastor’s hand.

‘We couldn’t cope without you …’

Wolf knew from the way Ralf was herding the clergymen to the door he was embarrassed by their gratitude and even more embarrassed at having him witness it. He wondered if it was because Ralf’s charity conflicted with the cynical, ‘man of the world’ image Ralf was keen to project, although, as he’d discovered years ago, the image was very different from the man.

Ralf finally succeeded in escorting the priests out and returned. He refilled his and Wolf’s schnapps glasses and summoned the waitress. ‘Clear the dirty glasses please, Adele. So, Wolf, you decided to take a look at what the Green Stork has to offer? Like this tasty piece.’ Ralf reached out and wrapped his arm around Adele’s waist.

‘Just calling in on a friend.’ Wolf smiled at Adele who winked at him.

‘She’s available if you want her,’ Ralf said after she’d had cleared the glasses. ‘There are a dozen rooms on the top floor the girls live and entertain in.’

‘You’re running a whorehouse?’

‘The girls are free agents. We pay for their waitressing services, the only deduction we make is for food and rent. What they do in their own rooms is their business and whatever they earn is theirs.’

‘“We” being?’

‘My father devised the system. I’m managing this place and overseeing the refurbishment of the new hotel he’s bought in Dom Strasse while he expands our shipping business in Gdansk.’

‘Managing? Meeting with clerics?’

‘A woman and three children, one a baby, froze to death in a doorway in Brodbanken Strasse last night. The Pastor’s opened the crypt of the cathedral to men. The good father, who has an army of nuns to help him, is housing women and children in his vestry and robing rooms but between them they don’t have enough space to accommodate all the homeless. They also don’t have the money to feed them but they’re collecting donations of food and money and co-ordinating the setting up of soup kitchens.’ Ralf left his chair and beckoned to Wolf to follow. They went down the stairs, behind the bar, through the kitchens and into the yard. The massive wooden twin doors to the stables were closed. Ralf tramped across the snow-covered cobbles and opened a small door set into one of the larger ones. Oil lamps shone in the individual stalls. Wood smoke wafted in the air.

‘Quick, don’t let the heat out,’ Ralf ordered.

Wolf closed the door. Fresh straw had been laid in the cobbled passage. Instead of horses, people were in the boxes. Whole families – mothers – grandmothers – grandfathers – children, but few fathers. Most were huddled under blankets and rugs. Braziers had been lit and the smell of roasting potatoes and potato soup filled the air.

Wolf leaned against the door. ‘Dear God! A pastor I met on a tram this morning was right. God’s turned his back on Germany and its people.’

‘Some of the families are lucky enough to have fathers who’ve returned from the war. The young and fit are out searching for food and work. As for the crippled veterans, widows, and orphans, it’s up to us survivors to look after them, Wolf.’

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Konigsberg, Saturday January 11th 1919

The two-roomed apartments in the blocks at the southern end of Blumen Strasse, west of the city centre, were small but comfortable. Helmut Norde knew because his mother’s sister lived in one. He drew his greatcoat closer to his frozen body and felt as though he was sealing the cold inside himself as he looked up at her living room window. A lamp burned behind the drapes.

A middle-aged couple approached and crossed the road putting as much distance between him and them as physically possible. He ran his hand over his chin. He’d shaved that morning in the washroom at the railway station, but the water had been cold, his razor blunt. He knew he looked dishevelled but he had the excuse that he’d just returned from the war. His aunt’s apartment had a stove …

The prospect of warmth overcame his pride. He checked the list of names against the bell pushes. He couldn’t see his aunt’s but he recalled it was the third on the left down from the top. He pressed it. He rang a second and a third time before he heard footsteps on the stairs.

Wishing his coat was cleaner he pulled up his scarf to hide his stubble. The door was wrenched open. A thickset, elderly man peered short-sightedly at him.

‘Yes?’

‘I was looking for Frau Milla …’

‘Died last year.’ The man slammed the door in Helmut’s face.

Helmut’s smile faded. First his father had disappeared from his life, now his aunt, and he hadn’t even made it into his aunt’s warm living room.

An old woman walked out of the side gate that led to the garden. ‘Helmut – Helmut Norde?’

‘Frau Bakker?’ He recalled his aunt’s neighbour who was caretaker of the block.

‘You came to see your aunt?’

‘A man just told me she’d died.’

‘Last October. Influenza.’

‘Here, let me help you.’ Helmut took the sack of logs she was hauling.

‘Thank you. You know where I live, in the basement.’ She opened the front door and Helmut carried the logs down to her tiny one-roomed apartment.

Frau Bakker unlocked the door. ‘Put the sack next to the stove, Helmut. I’ll make us some tea.’

‘Thank you. That would be nice.’ He looked around. The furnishings were sparser than he remembered but – he unbuttoned his greatcoat – the room was warm.

Munz Platz, Konigsberg, Saturday January 11th 1919

Lilli Richter was sitting at her desk in the newspaper office when Georg walked in. She dropped her pen on the rest next to the inkwell. ‘There’s been another murder?’

He closed the door, and sat in the visitor’s chair. ‘You’re guessing because of the note?’

‘This is a newspaper, Uncle Georg. People come to us with information. We’ve had half the vendors from Kohlmarkt in here this morning complaining your officers evicted them from their pitches and are searching an inn there. I didn’t need to be told it was number 15.’

‘The victim is Dedleff, Lilli.’ Georg monitored her reaction. She remained bolt upright but the colour drained from her face. If she was acting, it was a brilliant performance. ‘I identified him. There’s no doubt.’

‘He was … was … like the others?’

Georg chose not to elaborate. ‘When did you last see him?’

‘Early this morning. I woke him when I came in from Koggen Strasse.’ Her voice was flat, remote.

‘What time was that?’

‘What time did I leave you?’ she asked.

‘Around four o’clock. Klein arranged transport for you?’

‘He did.’

‘The journey couldn’t have taken you more than twenty minutes.’ Georg looked into her eyes. ‘Dedleff beat you when you reached home?’

She closed her eyes. ‘He was angry because I’d disturbed him.’

‘What happened then?’

‘I ran away from him. It wasn’t difficult. Dedleff was stumbling around. I think he was still drunk from the night before. He was certainly tired, and incoherent, otherwise he wouldn’t have allowed me to leave. I went to the turret and locked myself in – I have a study there. I slept there until Ernst brought me the note that had been delivered. He and Bertha told me Dedleff had left the house. I telephoned Police HQ. Then you arrived.’

‘What time did you come here to work?’

‘As long as it took me to have breakfast and change after you left. Half an hour or so.’

‘You didn’t think to rest so you could recover from the beating Dedleff gave you?’

‘I had to catch up on editorials.’

‘You’ve caught up now?’

‘No. Charlotte von Braunsch is my assistant. She hasn’t been in since her husband was murdered and I’ve not been …’

Whether it was the mention of Anton’s death or delayed shock, the reality of Dedleff’s death suddenly washed over Lilli. She slumped in her chair.

Georg shouted to for someone to bring water. When Lilli recovered enough to drink he lifted her coat from the rack. ‘I’ll walk you home.’

‘Where’s Dedleff?’

‘They were about to move his body from the inn to the mortuary when I left.’

‘An inn.’ Her eyes, abnormally bright, burned into his. ‘Inn, not brothel like the others?’

‘It’s an inn.’

‘He’d been drinking there?’

‘My officers are making enquiries.’ He turned to the reporter who’d brought Lilli the water. ‘Is it too late to put out an appeal in tomorrow’s newspaper?’

‘No.’ Lilli answered automatically.

‘I’ll see to it, Fraulein Richter.’ The man looked to Georg. ‘Give me instructions, Kriminaldirektor. I will make sure they’re carried out.’

‘I want to contact as many returning soldiers from the victims’ regiment as I can. Can you request that they telephone Police HQ urgently? If you could put the article on the front page I’d appreciate it. These are the details of the regiment.’ He scribbled in his notebook, tore out a page and handed it to him.

‘You think there are going to be more killings?’ Lilli asked.

Georg avoided answering her. ‘We’ll find whoever did this, Lilli. I promise you.’

Konigsberg, Saturday January 11th 1919

‘It’s hard for everyone these days in Konigsberg, Helmut.’ Frau Bakker handed Helmut tea in a Meissen cup he recognised as his aunt’s. ‘You have to walk miles to find a stall selling a potato or a piece of fish fit to eat, and when you do, it costs more than its weight in gold. The pension my husband left me buys one and a half loaves of bread and 100 grams of tea a week. Nothing else. Not even a bar of soap. What little I earn here is swallowed by my rent. I’ve forgotten what sugar, butter, eggs, and milk taste like. No one cares about old people any more. You were a good boy. You used to bring your aunt wood for her stove. I have to pay the boys five pfennigs to gather it for me and even then they leave it in the shed at the bottom of the garden. They wouldn’t dream of bringing it inside.’

Helmut took the hint. He dug in his pocket and handed over one of his remaining marks.

‘You always were a good boy and a credit to your aunt. It’s a pity she died. She would have taken you in, but I only have this one room. It wouldn’t be proper for you to stay here. A young man like yourself and a widow like me! How the neighbours would talk. In fact they probably already are. You’ve been here a long time.’

Helmut glanced at his officers’ issue watch. He’d been in the apartment precisely ten minutes. He was tempted to remind Frau Bakker of the fifty-year age gap between them but decided against it. She’d wanted money, he’d given her more than he could afford. She sensed it and wanted him gone.

‘Thank you for the tea.’ He drank the dregs, buttoned his coat, pulled on his gloves and wound his muffler around his neck.

‘You’re going to your father’s house in Rothenstein?’

‘I was there last night. Hardly anyone in the village remembered me. It’s not surprising. I left when I was fourteen. The new people in my father’s house told me he sold the farm and went to America in 1916.’

‘So he did.’ Frau Bakker stroked the hairs on her chin. ‘I remember your aunt telling me now. Well, who can blame him? Germany’s finished. Will you follow him?’

‘I don’t have the money to pay for the voyage. Even if I did I have no idea where he’s living in America.’

‘That’s the problem when a man remarries. He puts his second wife and family first. Your aunt told me your nose was pushed out when your father married less than a month after your mother died. He and your stepmother have six children, don’t they?’

‘Last I heard.’ Helmut didn’t want to discuss his father’s new family with Frau Bakker or anyone else.

‘If you’re stuck for a bed or a meal …’

‘Yes?’ he interrupted.

‘The pastor has opened a kitchen and dormitory for returning soldiers in the cathedral.’

‘You’ve been a great help, Frau Bakker.’ He tried not to sound sarcastic. ‘Thank you for the tea.’ He left the basement and started shivering in the communal hallway. By the time he reached the street he was shuddering from cold. He stepped up his pace, turned left at the end of Blumen Strasse into South Garten Strasse and carried on to Sackheim. It was a long walk to the cathedral, but the prospect of finding a kitchen and dormitory for demobbed soldiers was more attractive than spending a second night in the icy, comfortless railway station.